


Unconditional Positive Regard

by ADreamWithinADream



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Draco Malfoy Has Long Hair, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, MACUSA | Magical Congress of the United States of America, New Orleans, Psychology, Redemption, Smoking, Switching, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 20:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20512739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADreamWithinADream/pseuds/ADreamWithinADream
Summary: "A person is a fluid process, not a fixed and static entity; a flowing river of change, not a block of solid material; a continually changing constellation of potentialities, not a fixed quantity of traits." —Carl Rogers, On Becoming a Person





	Unconditional Positive Regard

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to preface this by saying that this is my first foray into the Drarry fandom.

_"Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall." - Proverbs_

Draco Malfoy doesn't believe in fate, redemption, or second chances. He believes only in the tangible reality of his choices. Of what being on the losing side had cost him. Leaving England was the easiest choice he had ever made. He thought that running was the answer. But it was simply cowardice. Five years had flown by. In his new life, it was easy to push the horrors of the War deep down inside himself, into the dark. He used drugs to sharpen or dull his senses in the beginning. Cocaine to raise him up and heroin to bring him down. He spent many a night in the arms of a stranger, feeling content for only a moment or two when his passion had reached its peak. But it was a lonely existence. And something he couldn't stop thinking about...no matter how hard he tried, were the words that Harry Potter had used at his hearing before the Wizengamot.

"It wasn't Malfoy's fault. He didn't have a choice. Not a real one, anyway. He was caught between what was right and loyalty to his family. Please be lenient and give him a chance."

Fucking Potter. Always coming in to save the day.

Even if Draco didn't deserve it. Even if he had secretly wished for Azkaban and the sweet oblivion of a Dementors Kiss. He hated Potter more in that moment than he had ever before, even more than when he had laid bleeding out on that cold, wet bathroom floor. The blood swirling around him had looked almost beautiful.

The day that Potter had spoken for him, they had exchanged glances briefly. Potter's face had been open and searching. Draco had returned it with a cold expression and a curt nod. Did Potter really think he would be grinning from ear to ear and falling over himself to give his thanks? The hurt look in Potter's eyes gave Draco a small pang of regret. He remembered seeing the same look when they had met at age 11 and Draco had effectively ruined the possibility of their friendship by insulting Weasley. Draco often wondered what things would have been like had that meeting gone differently...

To say that his childhood was twisted and wasted was an understatement. He was born and bred to hate anyone who was different than himself. He felt magnanimous when he would lord his Blood Purity and wealth over others. And all this self-esteem was built upon a lie. A lie he was only too happy to propagate: that anyone who was different from him was subpar, subhuman. He enjoyed hurting people. Being malicious. Hurling "Mudblood" as a curse.

Now when he looks back on who he was, he seethes in quiet fury. After he took the Mark, he realized truly how trapped he was. He had begun to reevaluate his beliefs, but it was too late. He was in too deep. His family was in too deep. It felt like he had no choice.

"I have no options!" But, that too, was a lie.

There are always options. Always. Draco could have been strong and sided with the Light. But he was scared. So scared of the unknown, of opening himself up to another way of thinking and another way of life. Of admitting that he was so, so wrong and incredibly misguided. What does the Muggle Christian Bible say? Pride...something?

Draco stopped his musings to deftly light a cigarette. Pressing it to his lips, he inhaled a deep drag. Cool mentholated vapor tingled his throat and his nostrils. He sighed upon exhale and looked out over the street below. He loved the balcony attached to his studio apartment. It was the one element that sold him on it.

He never imagined he would be living in the United States. Like a Muggle. In New Orleans, of all places. He was French, after all, but was far removed from anything remotely Creole. He had briefly considered moving to France, to Paris, but felt it too close to home for comfort. Isn't "home" supposed to bring comfort? Not for him.

Draco poured himself a measure of vodka and drank it straight, treasuring the burn. It was only half past 8 and he hadn't yet gotten dressed for work. He considered skivving off but knew he needed the money that only a Saturday night could provide.

When Draco had arrived in New Orleans, he had spent many days and nights just exploring. The French Quarter was one of those places that had to be experienced firsthand. The first thing Draco noticed was that the place positively reeked of magic. Though Draco no longer had possession of his wand, he was still a Wizard. He was still a magical being and was intimately familiar with the almost electric thrill of sorcery in the air. So sharp he could nearly taste it. Draco automatically felt as though he had made a grave mistake. Why would he want to confront himself with the constant reminder of what he had lost?

Over time, strangely, it had become a source of comfort to him. A touchstone to his past. Without having to confront the people and places that had brought him so much pain. There were times when he considered using non-verbal magic. But he knew that the Aurors would be on him in an instant if he did. His magical signature was being closely monitored ever since he was stripped of his wand at the trial. There were still instances where he would reach for his pocket expecting to find his wand and be was left bereft.

It was a lot easier to integrate himself into Muggle society than he thought. He briefly fantasized about the scandalized look on his classmate's faces if they could see him working in a Muggle bar as a bartender. He remembered walking into the bar for a drink and seeing the "Help Wanted" sign. When he inquired about the position, the bartender on duty smiled widely and looked at him apprasingly.

"You're a Brit? They'll love you here. Americans are suckers for accents."

"I've noticed" Draco responded playfully, adjusting his cufflinks.

He wore a colbalt blue button up that fit perfectly on his lithe frame. Over the years he had thankfully grown into his looks. At one time, he had looked sharp, severe, and maybe a little sickly due to his pale skin. Now he was toned from years of running, a sport he had taken up when he realized it was a bit like flying on the ground. It quieted the roar in his head. Instead of his hair slicked back and tamed within an inch of its life, he wore it loose around his shoulders. He never, ever tied it back lest he look too much like his Father. There was a time when he would have given anything to be just like his Father.

"I'm sure you have." The bartender said suggestively.

Draco was fully aware that he was handsome. And he wasn't afraid to use it in his favor. Especially when he had zero experience mixing drinks sans magic. Always the Slytherin. Old habits die hard.

"I have to confess...I don't have any experience", Draco admitted.

The bartender laughed and nodded.

"Shouldn't be a problem. Let me talk to my boss. I'd be willing to show you the ropes. Would be good for business to have a fresh face behind the bar"

Draco thanked the bartender and said he would return in a few days. And that, as they say, is history.

Draco was a fast learner. At first, he earned most of his tips simply by being attractive but before long he was an excellent bartender in his own right. He still chuckles at the fact that someone mentioned that watching him mix drinks was like watching someone do magic. Draco did, after all, get an O on his potions O.W.L. Draco thought wistfully of what could have been had events played out differently. He had always thought owning an apothecary would be right up his alley. A nice, quiet life where he could keep his head down and do some good.

Draco had spent some time thinking of starting over in a wizarding area of the States such as New York or Massachusetts. But he knew beyond a measure of a doubt that MACUSA was keeping tabs on him. The Ministry had forwarded his file. Of course they had. Draco was shaken out of his musings by a sharp burning sensation. His cigarette had burned down to the butt. Draco glanced at the clock. 9:30 PM. He had just half an hour to get ready and make the ten minute walk to work.

Draco chose a soft grey t-shirt and a black leather pair of pants he knew made his arse look fabulous. He stepped into the shower, sighing as the hot water ran in rivulets down his body. He washed perfunctorily. When he got out he spotted himself in the large mirror above his marble basin sink. The curse scars that Potter left were agitated from the hot water and stood out from the rest of his creamy porcelain skin. Though Professor Snape was able to heal him, he wasn't able to heal the scars. Sometimes they ached, a lingering reminder of the power of dark magic. A lingering reminder of Potter's face as he realized just how badly he had injured Draco. Draco could empathize with regret.

His Dark Mark stood out boldly on his arm - it had not faded, much to Draco's disappointment. But it didn't hurt. Many of the bars patrons and his fellow co-workers had commented on it. They always wanted to know what it meant. Draco always laughed the question off and said that it was a mistake from his youth. Such a simplistic explaination for such a profound failure.

Draco dressed quickly and made his way to work, smiling slightly at the sounds of the out-of-town revelers relishing the novelty of being able to walk around with open containers. The restaurant workers were busy tempting people into their establishments with deals on crawfish and shrimp po'boys. He cursed himself for getting lost in his thoughts earlier. He could have eaten that leftover shrimp étouffée. The sound of jazz floated out from a nearby piano bar.

He walked into his place of work like he owned it, waving to the regular patrons who raised their glasses to him. Louis, the man who had taught him all he knew, broke out into a cheeky grin when he caught sight of Draco.

"You shouldn't be allowed to wear those pants, Dray. Leaving something to the imagination keeps them coming in, remember?"

Louis always flirted with him. It was the hallmark of their relationship. It didn't bother Draco because Louis had remarked casually that Draco was "too young" for his tastes. Louis was in his 40's with salt and pepper hair and a persistent 5 o'clock shadow. Draco thinks that he should be annoyed at being called "Dray" especially since the last person who had called him that was Pansy Parkinson. She was the first person he had come out to back in school. They were 15. She wanted to know why their make-out sessions never led to more and why Draco wasn't aroused. Pansy screwed her face up like she was in pain. "Fucking Merlin! Why do all the fit ones have to be queer?!"

Immediately, the two had an in-depth conversation about their future. They were meant to be married when they finished school. This had been arranged since the two were 5 years old. Pansy promised to marry Draco despite his homosexual inclinations. They would lead separate sexual and romantic lives but would indeed conceive a Malfoy heir when the time was right. There were spells and potions that could be used that would allow them to have a baby without actual intercourse. Draco found himself missing her. She matched him, with her sharp tongue and her wit. Their life together would have been far from miserable. But when he lost his wand and his name landed in the mud, the Parkinson's dissolved the match. Why, pray tell, would they want their daughter married to a man who couldn't use magic?

It was day 2,013 since he was stripped of his wand. 2,013 days without magic. Not that anyone was counting. He busied himself pouring tequila shots for a group of women who he assumed were celebrating a bachelorette party. They had gone with the 1800 rather than the house. Decent taste. As he doled out limes and sprinkled the back of their hands with salt, the women commented on his accent. He gave them a winning smile and knew he would get a decent tip. The lime juice got into a cut he had in the cuticle of his thumb. He reached the digit to his mouth and sucked lightly on it. When he looked up, his eyes met those of a man across the bar. Green eyes and messy black hair. Unmistakeable.

Harry Potter was in his bar.


End file.
